


Alonzo

by vanillafluffy



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Artist Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Dog Fighting, Dogs, Gen, Protective Bucky Barnes, Service Dogs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-18
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2020-03-07 04:04:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18865333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanillafluffy/pseuds/vanillafluffy
Summary: For the prompt: "being a fiercely devoted furbaby parent"...in this case, Bucky Barnes entreats Steve with the classic line, "He followed me home, I'm gonna keep him.". What follows is more than they ever expected.





	Alonzo

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Brumeier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brumeier/gifts).



Although Bucky later claims the dog followed him home, the truth is, it’s really attracted by the aroma of delicatessen emanating from him. He’s been to the local deli, picked up some cold cuts, neatly wrapped in white butcher’s paper, and distributed the packets between various coat pockets. Out of long habit, he prefers to have his hands free in case of trouble.

It’s a rainy afternoon which goes from being drippy to pelting down in icy streams midway home. Bucky ducks into the alcove of a vacant storefront. He’s not worried about getting wet himself, but he’s wearing his newest pair of shoes--he’s not about to get them soaked, thanks. He’ll wait for it to taper off.

Standing there, he’s quietly watching the traffic, automatically scanning for threats, when something lands against the side of his right leg.

He looks down at a scruffy, bedraggled-looking grey dog on its hind legs, sniffing the pocket holding two pounds of rare roast beef--”Thin enough to fold, but not so thin it falls apart” is his standard request. The dog pats his pocket with one muddy paw, nose quivering.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Bucky demands.

The dog drops to all fours, not quite coming up to Bucky’s knee. It takes a step back and sits, whining hopefully.

Hell…he’s always had a soft spot for stray dogs. This little beggar knows Bucky has food, and he’s being relatively polite about asking for some. He reaches into his other pocket for the ham--at $10.99 a pound, he’s not feeding roast beef to some mutt--unfolds it and extracts a slice.

The grey dog stands on its hind legs and dances in place, eyes never leaving Bucky. “Could you be any fucking cuter?” he demands of it. He doles out the ham a strip at a time. 

By the time he’s done, the cloudburst has subsided. “Okay, nice talking to you,” he says to the wet mop of fur and heads toward the brownstone.

The dog follows at his heels. He manages to duck inside without letting the mooch in, too. The dog scratches at the door.

“Seriously?” Bucky asks his reflection in the foyer mirror. He retrieves the food from his pockets, hangs his coat in the closet. The scratching is more insistent, accompanied by a low moan. “Okay, fine.”

When he opens the front door, the dog is fast--but Bucky’s faster. He scoops up the muddy bundle and carries it into the kitchen. The deli meats go into the fridge, but there are a few limp slices of bologna that he figures they can spare. He can almost hear his sainted mother scolding him about feeding perfectly good food to a dog, but then, she’d always preferred cats to dogs. This one has no collar, so Bucky figures the little guy is in need of a good home.

He can hear Steve running the vacuum upstairs. Bucky quietly opens the cellar door, still holding the squirming dog--who’s now targeting the bologna--goes down the first couple steps and closes it behind them. There’s a waist-high laundry tub over by the washer and dryer.

“You’re probably not going to like this part. I’ll bet you’ve never been exposed to soap and water in your life.” He tears off a bite of bologna, which is eagerly received.

To his surprise, the dog doesn’t fuss as much as Bucky expected. Maybe he _has_ been bathed at some time in the far distant past. He doesn’t look happy about it, but he doesn’t fight, bite or bark, even when Bucky carefully washes his floppy ears--for which Bucky’s thankful. Hopefully, he can get the beast clean and dried and presentable-looking before Steve sees him.

After copious amounts of warm water and soap, the dog isn’t nearly as grey as he’d appeared on the street, although there his coat is completely matted and snarled. Meanwhile, he’s had a whole slice of bologna and his tail wags continuously.

Bucky is starting to feel optimistic when the cellar door opens and Steve calls, “Hey, Buck?”

“I’m here. I got us some lunch meat, it’s in the fridge,” he adds, wanting to forestall what happens next.

There’s clattering on the stairs as Steve enters the basement. “I just wanted to tell you--”

The dog, sensing his distraction, seizes the opportunity to bounce out of the tub, dash past Steve and bolt up the stairs. Steve left the cellar door open, and rapid paw-steps patter across the kitchen floor. 

“What the heck was that?”

“A smoothie.” Bucky snarks. “Nice work, Steve. You just let my dog get loose.”

“You went to the deli and came back with a dog?” Steve chuckles. “Was it a wiener dog?”

“He followed me home. I washed him. I even rinsed him. Of course, now he’s probably rolling on the living room rug to get dry.”

“Yeah, well I just vacuumed the living room an hour ago,” Steve shoots back. “I’m glad he’s clean.”

Bucky sighs. “Let’s go track him down. Here, take some bologna.”

It’s Steve who finds the escape artist, drinking out of the toilet in the downstairs half-bath. He sits down in the doorway, effectively blocking it, and lures the dog closer with the bologna.

“You gave him the whole piece at once? Geez, you’ve got a friend for life, now.” Bucky speaks gruffly, but he’s relieved to see Steve smiling and scratching the dog’s ears. He hadn’t been sure his partner would accept the proposed addition to their domestic situation, but clearly, he’s been won over.

Once he knows Steve is out of food, the dog jumps up, claws his way over Steve’s shoulder and prances over to Bucky, where he sits and looks up at him expectantly, stubby tail wagging.

“See how smart he is?” Bucky says fondly. “He knows I’ve got something for him. Here you go, pup.” 

“What are you going to call him?” Steve asks as the dog inhales the morsel.

“Hadn’t thought about it.” Bucky frowns, looking speculatively at the eager canine. “He looks like a dust-mop with legs…I _could_ call him Dusty.”

Steve rises to his feet, brushing himself off. “You know what he reminds me of?” Bucky eyes him, waiting for a snide comment. “That old guy, what was his name?--he had that rag shop you used to like to go to for stacks of old pulps.”

Bucky’s face lights up. “Mr. Alonzo!” he exclaims. He sports a big grins as he reminisces about the secondhand dealer. “I haven’t thought of him in years…he used to save all the science fiction he got for me.” He studies the dog. “Hmm, wild curly grey hair…yeah, I can see it. Here you go, Alonzo!” He feeds the rest of the bologna to the happy dog, who is Alonzo from that moment forward.

He’s never owned a dog in his life, but Bucky’s a great believer in Reading the Manual. If you can read, you can learn just about anything, he claims. So it’s no surprise that by the end of the day, he’s gone out and returned with a collar, a leash, dog food and several books on dog training.

Within 24 hours, Alonzo has his shots and has been micro-chipped. There are signs that he was somebody’s dog in a previous life--he goes to the back door and whines when he wants to be let out, and voluntarily selects the little alley where the trashcans are kept as his toilet area.

“I told you he was smart!” Bucky keeps saying.

Steve’s just glad the little guy isn’t messing up the house. They’ve long since come to a division of labor where Bucky takes care of shopping, cooking and the kitchen in general. Steve deals with the rest of the house and they rotate yard work and share laundry duty. Thankfully, Alonzo seems to be reliably house-broken and doesn’t shed much that he can tell. He doesn’t try to dig up the backyard, either, but he happily plays fetch with Bucky for up to an hour at a time.

It’s endearing to see Bucky with the small grey dog--they doesn’t see much of their godson these days, since his parents are both working for Stark Industries, which provides free daycare. Alonzo is an outlet for his nurturing instincts…although when Bucky dresses the dog in one of Archer’s outgrown tee shirts to go for a walk, Steve has to bite his tongue to keep from laughing. It’s so ridiculous--Bucky Barnes, feared ex-assassin and badass extraordinaire strolling along with an ambulatory dust-mop clad in a Captain America tee shirt. If people are supposed to look like their dogs, Bucky ought to have something muscular and fierce-looking, like a Doberman or a Rottweiler with a spiked collar. As far as personalities go, though, they’re a good match.

When Bucky overhears Steve referring to Alonzo as his service animal, he corrects him. _Not_ a service animal, _maybe_ an emotional support animal--he goes into detail about the differences while Steve’s eyes glaze over. 

Whatever else he is, Alonzo is good for Bucky. Although Bucky waves off the suggestion that his furry companion offers emotional support, Steve knows better. Even now, Bucky is prone to nightmares--more than once, Steve has tried to wake him from some old terror that has him thrashing in his sleep and been clouted by his semi-conscious partner. More recently in the middle of the night, Bucky stirs restlessly…as Steve debates whether to try rousing him, Alonzo hops onto the bed and nuzzles Bucky’s face.

Bucky’s eyes squint at the dog. “Do you need to go out?” Alonzo snuggles on the pillow beside Bucky’s head, licks his cheek and settles down to sleep. With a faint smile, Bucky followes suite. Crisis averted.

After having Alonzo professionally groomed for the first time--because there are mats in his coat that Bucky finds impossible to brush without tugging the dog’s tender skin--he returns home with the astonishing news that far from being some kind of terrier like he’d first thought, the groomer has told him unequivocally that his furbaby is, in fact, a miniature poodle. As someone who’s been a groomer for thirty years, she ought to know.

“Can you believe it?” Bucky marvels. “A poodle? They’re one of the most intelligent and trainable breeds, Steve--no wonder he’s so smart! Oh, and he isn’t grey--poodle people call it ‘silver’.”

Instead of being given the traditional poodle cut with pom-poms and frills, Alonzo’s silver fur is clipped to the same length all over--about an inch to start with--his face and paws buzzed short. It makes him look like a tiny grey lamb. Bucky keeps the new style well-maintained. While they watch television in the evening, Alonzo is usually on Bucky’s lap luxuriating in the gentle touch of the brush and comb.

Another benefit of Alonzo is that Bucky’s circle of friends expands. When they first got the brownstone, they’d spent a lot of their time fixing it up. Then Steve started taking art classes while Bucky enjoyed domesticity, trying out recipes and looking after their godson. Shy in the wake of briefly being deemed an international terrorist, he’d been cautious about going out and meeting people. Now his conversation features characters he’s met walking the poodle, Gina from the grooming salon and clerks at pet stores all over town. The dog goes everywhere with him, so well-behaved that his presence rarely causes concern. 

Steve is relieved on several counts. As devoted as they are to one another, he knows that too much togetherness is liable to stagnate their relationship. Now that they each have their own interests to pursue; it’s satisfying to get together at the end of the day over dinner with stories to tell about their days. Now when Steve talks about the exhibit of photo-realism he went to, Bucky contributes a comical story of Alonzo getting acquainted with the shop cat at one of his sci-fi bookstore haunts.

When Bucky comes home one evening with the news that he’s found a therapist, Steve is astonished (because his friend has been resisting the idea strenuously for going on two years now) but pleased.

“She was walking her dog,” Bucky explains. “A really sweet cocker spaniel named Dixie. Alonzo had a great time with her and Melissa says I’m welcome to bring him to my sessions.”

“Great,” says Steve, who knows better than to make a big deal of it. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do.” He means in case the therapist wants to talk to him, but it’s Bucky’s deal, he’s not going to shoehorn in on it unless he’s invited.

The sessions seem to be going well. Then, after the fourth appointment, they’re unusually late getting back. When Steve finally hears the key in the lock, he expects to hear Alonzo trot in and drink from his water bowl and for Bucky to make a beeline for the kitchen for lunch. Neither happens.

Concerned, he goes out to the foyer, where Bucky is huddled on the bench hugging Alonzo, who’s on his lap. 

“Buck? What’s wrong?” Bucky looks up. There’s a jagged cut on his left cheek and his eyes are haunted. “What happened to you?”

“Two dogs were fighting in the park on the way home….”

“Is Alonzo okay?” Steve asks in alarm.

“He’s fine. I waded in to break it up…the smaller dog was about his size, the other one was about eight times his size….” Bucky’s voice is ragged. “The big one…well, he found out he couldn’t eat my left hand and I managed to get ahold of his leash and pull him off. Then I tried to catch the little one and it took a chunk out of me.”

Steve gets a look at Bucky’s right hand, which looks like it’s been used as a chew toy. “Sit tight, I’ll get the first aid kit.”

The first aid kit lives in the downstairs bathroom, which is right next to the kitchen. Steve detours for a slice of bologna, figuring that feeding it to Alonzo will distract Bucky while his hand is being tended. As far as treats go, he’s not sure if Bucky has him trained or if Alonzo has them both trained….

“So, what happened to your face?” he asks while he pours hydrogen peroxide on the wound. 

Bucky sighs. “The little dog’s owner…she thought I threw her dog. I mean, he was hanging off my hand by his teeth. I kind of shook him off and it looked to her like I’d thrown him. She ran up and punched me in the face. The setting in her ring scratched me.”

“Wow.” Steve spritzes the punctures and lacerations with antibacterial spray. “Sounds intense.”

Alonzo chomps the last of the bologna and licks Bucky’s metal fingers. Bucky gently scritches behind his woolly silver ears. “You can say that again. The big dog’s owner showed up while the gal was bitching at me about hurting her darling--the big dog was on one of those twenty-foot leads and pulled away from his owner, the little one was off leash and ran to get away--so they were trying to catch up and neither of them saw the fight happen. We ended up with them, four eyewitnesses who insisted I was a hero," He rolls his eyes. "a homeless guy who claimed he’s a presidential candidate and wanted to give a stump speech about mole people living in the subway tunnels--and two bike patrol cops.”

Steve whistles. “Sounds like quite a circus. Where was Alonzo during all of this?”

“I put him on top of a trash can and told him to stay while I waded into the fray. And he did, too. He’s a good boy, aren’t you, Alonzo?” He flexes his bandaged hand gingerly and rubs the poodle’s chest.

 _You’re a good boy_ , Steve wants to say, but Bucky would give him a Look, so he refrains. “How was your session?”

“It was fine. Don’t worry, I’m not going to come unglued. I’m just a little rattled from the fight and all. I know I’m pardoned, but I’m not over the whole ‘Oh shit, cops!’ reflex. Kinda stressful, y’know?”

“Definitely,” Steve agrees. That plus dogs in danger was sure to be traumatic. “And it’s kind of late, you probably need to eat something. He’s had a snack--you should, too. We’ve got pastrami and that rye bread you like.”

Bucky manages to smile. “Best offer I’ve had all day,” he declares. With one last scritch behind the ears, he sets Alonzo on the floor and stands up. “Thanks for cleaning up my hand.”

“I’d say ‘any time’, but let’s hope it’s not a regular thing.”

Bucky chuckles and exits in the direction of the kitchen, the silver poodle trotting at his heels.

 

…

**Author's Note:**

> This is set in the same verse as "Oh Baby" roughly a year and a half later.
> 
> Post-credits headcanon: Since Alonzo's arrival, Bucky upgrades the quality of bologna he buys from prepackaged whatever's on sale at the grocery store to fresh-sliced from the deli, because his little buddy deserves better than that cheap stuff. Once in a while, he'll even dole out a tidbit of roast beef. Shh, don't tell Steve!


End file.
